The Trials of a Peverell
by Lily Carmen Black
Summary: For years Amaranth Clementina Peverell has waisted away in Azkaban, but when a chance of freedom comes her way, she takes it. But somewhere, in the mind of a Peverell, there is a Gaunt; a Selwyn and a Potter. As the wizarding world learns of her connection to the Dark Lord and her unusual heritage, one question will remain on their lips. Did she join him, or betray him?
1. Deals and the Forked Tongue

_**Disclaimer: I only own Amaranth Peverell, her family, and her story. Anything that you recognise belongs to the amazing J K Rowling, and I am simply using the source material provided to create a fan-fiction. This is also a companion piece to "Not All Slytherins are Death Eaters" so some of you, if you have not read it, might not understand some of the lore or character behind this fan fiction.**_

* * *

 **Chapter One**

 **Deals and the Forked Tongue**

 **9th of December 1998**

Amaranth Clementina Peverell wasn't a kind woman, and that had only intensified through the years she had spent in Azkaban, so she was rather surprised to find Kingsley Shacklebolt — the newly appointed Minister for Magic — standing outside her cell… a cell she had once shared with her husband. A thick lump suddenly caught in her throat as she rose from the dirt stained mattress, and with a large gulp, she fought the tears that threatened to erupt from her eyes…she would not show emotion…emotions led to hurt.

"Well," she hissed, her dark green eyes flickering to Kingsley's face like a dangerous and uncontrollable flame, "what do you want?"

The auror who stood beside the dark skinned man clenched his fists, however, Kingsley took no notice, and it took Amaranth a couple of seconds to realise that he was staring at the three scars that ran down her neck and beneath the loose prison dress that covered her sickly form. The Death Eater frowned, and with a tug to her dress, the scars disappeared.

"How are they treating you?" whispered Kingsley, in a dazed sort of voice. Amaranth snorted and rolled her grass coloured eyes.

"Dogs are treated better than us lot," she snapped as she scratched the side of her head with her talon-like nails. "Then again, with the dementors gone I wouldn't expect anything less. We are your enemies after all,"

She flashed Kingsley a violent smile that seemed to kiss her lips. The auror coughed, shivered and glanced at the floor. Amaranth's eyes never left Kingsley's own as the Minister of Magic delved deep into his robe pocket. Amaranth flinched, expecting a wand, but what the ex-auror pulled out of his robes made a dry laugh escape her cracked lips.

"Are you going to write my will?" she gasped as she clutched her side as her rotten teeth flashed. "Are you going to kill me that soon?"

Kingsley didn't explain as he pulled up a stool that was usually reserved for the night guard, sat and began to write.

"Amaranth Clementina Peverell," he said as his nib scratched against the parchment, "from the Houses of Gaunt, Selwyn, Slytherin, and Peverell; daughter of Terrin Ezra and Amoret Memphis Peverell; wife to Order of the Phoenix member, Sirius Black and the first cousin once-removed to the Dark Lord, Tom Marvolo Riddle, allis: Lord Voldemort. You have been found guilty of second and first-degree murder, torture; espionage; arson; incantation of the Three Unforgivable Curses; the murder of Marlene McKinnon and rape—"

A loud hiss escaped from Amaranth's lips and for a second, Kingsley halted, his mouth dry and then with a deep breath he continued.

"Do you deny it,"

"I admit to the Unforgivables. You would use them too if, — if you grew up in the hell hole like I did. You would too if a Dark Lord had a wand pressed to your throat — you would to if you knew he murdered your parents." Amaranth had now risen, to her feet, her hands now wrapping around the bars as if they were the necks of her enemies. "You would kill and torture if your own life was on the line, but I never murdered Marlene nor rape anyone! They are lies!"

Kingsley raised an eyebrow and placed his quill on his parchment.

"Since you never got a trial, I have decided that you need one, however, upon the recording of my notes that I will present to the Wizengamot and it is they who will determine your fate. If they see you guilty you will die —"

"Hey!" interrupted Amaranth, her eyes blazing. "That's not fair!"

Kingsley ignored her as if she were a moth that was tangled in a spider's web.

"— if you are found innocent, then you will be released, free of charge and your daughter will be returned to you,"

"Where is Amoret?" whispered Amaranth, as she placed her hands on her stomach as if she could still feel her daughter moving around, even though it had been over seventeen years since her daughter lay in her arms. "Where is my daughter?"

"I'm afraid I cannot disclose her whereabouts, however, I can tell you that she is safe,"

Amaranth closed her eyes, before she collapsed to the stone ground, gripping at her hair.

"So," continued Kingsley, his eyes trained on the woman who lay sprawled in front of him, "do we have a deal?"

For several seconds, Amaranth didn't say anything, and then, she lowered her hands from her rat-like strands and fixed Kingsley a harsh look.

"Where do you want me to begin?" she hissed, her forked tongue flickering in and out of her mouth as her eyes glowed an unnatural red. Kingsley breathed harshly through his nose before he picked up his quill, licked it and pressed it back to the parchment.

"How about from the beginning?"

"The beginning of where?" asked Amaranth, her once light eyes now dark with a burning scarlet.

"The day you met your cousin. The day you met Lord Voldemort."

Amaranth growled but, eventually after several seconds she obliged.

* * *

 **1st of April 1970**

The day Amaranth's parents died was the day she was moved to Wool's Orphanage. It was strange, instead of her parents handing her over to a distant cousin or her aunt like she had expected to appear at the reading of her parents Will, the young girl had been directed to the cursed orphanage that her great-aunt Merope had died in.

As the dark haired girl traced her finger across the windowpane of her bedroom window, following the rain that fell from the snake-like clouds, she never thought that the spindly figure in a black coat was coming for her.

It had been two years since her parents — Terrin and Amoret — had died and although Amaranth had been only a measly nine-year-old, she remembered one thing above the rest. Her parents were magical and the odd burst of magical energy that erupted from her was because of them. All her odd gifts, — that made the other orphans in Wool's Orphanage absolutely terrified of her — gifts such as being able to talk to snakes and move objects with her mind had made the dark haired girl a subject to bullying.

Not that Amaranth cared. They could bully her all they wanted but in the end, the child would wake up with a grass snake — or once while Mrs Grand took the Orphans out camping — an adder wrapped around her hands. She was never alone.

The parchment of an opened letter felt soft beneath her rough fingers — the result of scrubbing the floors of the bathrooms one too many times — and as a quiet knock filled the girl's ears and her door opened she would never have expected the tall man to stride into her room.

"Amaranth," whispered Mrs Grand, a kind smile on her usually stern features, "you have a visitor,"

The girl turned, her once bright eyes now dull and as they settled on the pale figure who stood before her, she couldn't help but recognise him from somewhere. He stood, powerful and strong, his dark hair falling over his pointed features with a long nose that was vaguely familiar — it was later, much later that Amaranth would realise that she looked at that nose nearly every day in the mirror. His dark eyes glanced around the room as if he were inspecting it, and as his eyes finally settled on Amaranth herself, she couldn't help but shiver. They were her mother's eyes.

"Please leave us," whispered the man and it took Amaranth several seconds to realise that he was talking to Mrs Grand. The blonde haired blinked, as if under a spell before she turned, shutting the door behind her, leaving the young girl with the familiar stranger whom she'd never met.

"So," whispered the man as he gazed around the cream coloured walls. "this room certainly has changed."

It took Amaranth several seconds to realise the man wasn't speaking English, in fact, his lips weren't even moving. He was speaking in Parseltongue…in her head. Amaranth's invisible barrier suddenly erupted around her mind — just as her mother had taught her many years ago — and the man smirked as he tapped his head with a long, pale finger.

"Green walls," he said as if it were the most amusing thing he'd seen all day, "green bedroom walls, very classy. But not here,"

"Who are you?" hissed Amaranth, in perfect English. Her voice was sore, she hadn't spoken in a while and she winced. She wanted to sound strong, — strong like her mother had been — but instead, her voice was as subtle and as quiet as a mouse...hardly a snake...Salazar Slytherin would have been absolutely furious and ashamed of her. The heir of Slytherin rolled her shoulders back as the man stalked towards her.

Amaranth's calm demeanour shattered into a million pieces as the man gripped the base of her chin, forcing her to stare into his cold, dark eyes.

"You look like my mother," he whispered. "Without her eyes, of course, their Selwyn,"

Amaranth growled and ripped her chin out of the man's grip, however as she stood, back against the wall, she knew that somehow she was related to him.

"Who are you?" asked Amaranth again, this time, hissing in the language of snakes. The man looked slightly surprised and then, a cruel smirk curled on his lips and he stepped back before he gracefully sat on her bed. Amaranth didn't move from the wall, her legs were bound together as if held by the scaly bodies of snakes.

"This used to be my room," said the man, ignoring Amaranth's question altogether, "I hated it,"

Amaranth decided not to say anything. If this man could speak parseltongue, it meant that he was either an heir of Slytherin or had taught himself the language and the only people who could have taught him, where her parents and they were dead.

"My mother died here," said the man and Amaranth slowly detached herself from the wall and approached the man, "she'd buried in the church's grounds."

Amaranth still didn't say anything, her lips were snapped shut as if tied by an invisible string and she had a feeling it was also to do with the man. And then, from the pocket of his jacket he pulled out a wand. It was long and for some strange reason, Amaranth knew that it was made of Yew wood. With a light flick, Amaranth's trunk suddenly slipped out from underneath her bed; the narrow wardrobe flew open; her desk exploded and as socks, clothes and pieces of paper flew around her room, Amaranth's mouth dropped open. He was a wizard.

"How,—" she whispered her eyes wide. "Why—When—What?"

The man raised an eyebrow as her things folded themselves into her trunk and smiled.

"Amaranth, would you like to come and live with me?"

It was like a dream had come true. Nobody ever wanted the 'strange girl' the 'crazy girl', and now, someone was standing in front of her. Granted, he scared her a little bit but Amaranth had never been good with people. Later, the girl would regret her decision but at the time, it was as if someone had dropped a bucket of galleons right in front of her.

"Yes, please," she finally gasped. The man nodded and with a wave of his hand, the lid of her trunk snapped into place.

"Good," he said, handing her a black coat that suddenly appeared in his hands. "I'll inform Mrs Grand," and with that, the man swept out of the room.

Amaranth's hand tingled with excitement as she pulled on the long coat. Finally, she'd have a home. She never questioned why the man was rather old for adopting a child, she was too excited. If she had, she might have asked other questions, questions that should have been obvious.

Like how Mrs Grand never came to hug her goodbye like all the other children; how, as she grasped the man's hand, she realised how cold it was or how as the two left by apparition, his eyes glowed a scarlet red. The two landed rather violently outside a pair of grand gates and Amaranth frowned, the man who'd adopted her didn't seem that rich.

"Where are we?" asked Amaranth, her child-like question hanging in the air. However, her question was answered as the gates swung open and a tall woman with thick, lustrous hair stalked out. Amaranth assumed that it must be his wife and — like before — she never questioned why she was several years younger. The questions only began to swim around in her head when the woman bowed.

"My Lord," she whispered, "Rodolphus and I are very, very humbled that you are using our little home as your residence, please, come in,"

'Little' wasn't a word Amaranth would have described the house. It was more of a manor house and as the 'Lord' pulled Amaranth through the gates, she never noticed him change. It was only later that she would see his skin, change, becoming, — becoming waxier and reptilian or the whites of his eyes disappearing behind a wall of bloodshot red.

"Where are we?" asked Amaranth again as the two followed the woman through the large doors of the manor. But, like before, the 'Lord' didn't answer. House elves scuttled around the shadow cast halls, nervously pressing themselves to each wall as the three passed. It was the screams of a boy which told Amaranth something was wrong. As the three entered a large room, the screaming began.

"Please!" a woman screamed, her blue eyes wide. "I don't know anything! Please don't hurt my son!"

Amaranth's heart stopped as her eyes settled on a small woman, kneeling in front of a man with dark hair the colour of ebony. He stood proud and tall, a slithering black mark etched on his left forearm.

"Shut up," snarled the man as he pressed the woman's face to the floor with the heel of his booted foot. "you filthy little mudblood!"

"But we don't—"

The woman's desperate voice was cut off as the man pointed his wand at her and bellowed,

"CRUSIO!"

Amaranth clamped her hands over her ears as the woman's screams filled the air and her body began to shake.

"Stop it!" she suddenly cried, as she dropped to her knees, unable to shut out the woman's bloodcurdling screams or the horribly twisted image that lay before her any longer. "Stop it!"

Surprisingly, the man obliged — although if Amaranth had been watching — it was because of the 'Lord's' presence more than anything.

"My Lord," the man whispered, bowing towards him as Amaranth lay crumpled at the 'Lord's' feet. "Do you want me to torture her too?"

"No," whispered the 'Lord' his voice very different now, "let me talk to her…alone,"

The two obliged, however, they left their two prisoners to whimper in distress on the floor. Amaranth felt the 'Lord's' spider-like fingers run over her thick hair as he passed her. She didn't dare glance up at him, she didn't want to.

"Amaranth," the 'Lord' hissed, sound even more like a snake than she did. "Little Amaranth Peverell—" one of the prisoners gasped, but the 'Lord' ignored him, "— do you want to know why your parents forced you to enter Wool's?"

Amaranth didn't answer.

"Because," said the 'Lord', "they wanted you to be safe, safe from me."

The man's gaze settled on her, but still, she never raised her head.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, girl!" snapped the 'Lord' and then, Amaranth's neck was being wrenched upward, her face violently following pursuit. If she could have gasped, she would have. The 'Lord's' skin reminded the young girl of marble and the red eyes that bore from a layer of greying hair made her shiver.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked, wand in hand. With what little determination she had left, Amaranth shook her head. The 'Lord' hummed, as if slightly offended. "My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle,"

Amaranth internally frowned. That name sounded familiar.

"Or, as I prefer, Lord Voldemort,"

As the Dark Lord released his spell on the eleven-year-old she collapsed into a state of tears. Suddenly, everything made sense. Her parents insistent Will, the way Mrs Grant had never come to hug her and the strange feeling of doubt that had settled at the back of her mind whispering to her that his was all too good to be true.

Her face was roughly gripped by Lord Voldemort again, but this time, it was physical, as he forced her to look up into his face. To Amaranth, he looked worse up close and as her eyes trailed down his slit-like nose where the glamour had once lain a cold finger trailed down her cheek.

"You look so much like my mother — your great-aunt Merope,"

"The woman who married a muggle," Amaranth said without thinking. The loud slap that ricocheted through the hall made the two prisoners wince.

"Shut up!" hissed Lord Voldemort as he peered down on Amaranth, his fingers pressing against her mouth, "Shut up!"

And then, his fingers were prying against her chin, forcing the young girl to open her mouth. Amaranth would have screamed if he hadn't grabbed her tongue and pressed her wand against the fold of her tongue. A horrible, burning sensation suddenly shot through her mouth and as Amaranth tried to push herself away from the mad man, the Dark Lord laughed.

By the time Lord Voldemort had removed his wand, blood-soaked the inside of her mouth and spilt out from the corner of her lips. She opened her mouth to speak and the red liquid sloshed onto the ground below, causing the young girl to cough and splutter rather violently. Lord Voldemort, stood, grinning above her as he wiped his wand on Amaranth's cheek as if she was nothing but paper.

"Now," said Lord Voldemort as he snatched Amaranth's chin again, "you will do what any of my followers and I suggest or say. Do you understand Amaranth?"

The girl nodded.

"Good," stated Lord Voldemort as he pushed Amaranth's chin away, causing the young girl to topple to the floor. "Bellatrix!"

The woman — Bellatrix — reentered the room, carefully fingering her wand as she locked lustful eyes with the Dark Lord.

"Yes, my Lord?" Bellatrix asked, bowing profoundly.

"Take the girl to a room," said Lord Voldemort, indicating to the quivering girl. "Find her suitable clothes to wear and burn everything else,"

Bellatrix's eyes narrowed slightly, but just like before, she bowed.

"Of course, my Lord," she said before she stalked towards Amaranth and pulled her up by her long hair. "Come on you brat!"

Amaranth was dragged to her feet and just before Bellatrix could drag her through the door, Lord Voldemort called,

"Wait!" The Dark Lord was suddenly upon her, his black robes wrapping themselves around her lithe body.

"Bellatrix," Lord Voldemort whispered, his gaze never leaving Amaranth's quivering own, "give the girl your wand,"

Bellatrix reluctantly obliged and soon Amaranth felt the cool wood of Madam Lestrange's Voldemort gripped her by the shoulders and turned her to face the two quivering prisoners. The Dark Lord suddenly pressed his lips to Amaranth's ear and with a low whisper that turned her blood to ice, he whispered,

"Kill them,"

Amaranth shook her head and Lord Voldemort gripped her head again, forcing him to face her.

"Kill them," he hissed, this time in parseltongue. "Or, I'll kill you,"

Amaranth's lip tightened. She didn't want to die, not now. With that, Amaranth raised Bellatrix's wand.

"Please," the woman begged as she clasped her hands together. "You're only a child,"

Two green flashes filled the room and the woman and her son's bodies slumped, they're horrified expressions causing Amaranth to drop the wand in fear. She'd, — she'd killed. Lord Voldemort's sharp laugh filled her ears as Bellatrix snatched up her own wand.

"Well, done Amaranth," hissed Lord Voldemort as he rapped the top of her head with his wand, causing her tongue to heal and the blood to vanish. "Very well, done indeed,"

However, Amaranth didn't even notice the blood had disappeared from her mouth, she just stared, horrified at the two people she had just murdered. She never noticed Lord Voldemort pressing his wand into her left forearm or the tingling sensation travelling through it. She was numb, terrified and alone, and as Bellatrix dragged her out the room by her hair and up a flight of stairs, she didn't say anything, as if she were a ghost.

The girl made no sound as she was tossed into a room; Bellatrix clawing at her clothes, ripping them to shreds. A black robe was thrown her way, but she didn't put it on, her arms were too heavy. Bellatrix left after that, grumbling about childish behaviour. Amaranth never moved from the floor and it was only when a house elf entered the room; helping her change into the robe and her to her feet did the witch glance towards an ornate mirror that stood above the fireplace.

Her face was pale, sweaty and her eyes were wide, like a startled rabbit. She didn't look like a murderer and if the girl thought hard enough she could almost convince herself that she was still in her room at Wool's. But she couldn't and as the house elf left, she stuck her tongue out. It now lay, split in two, like a snake's forked tongue or as Amaranth saw it — a constant reminder of what she'd done.

The girl shivered and reigned her tongue back into her mouth. She wouldn't talk, not if she could help it, and as Amaranth flung herself onto the bed, finally letting the tears roll down her face, she never noticed the wriggling mark that travelled up her left forearm.

She now — regrettably — understood her relation to Lord Voldemort, or Tom Marvolo Riddle or whatever he wanted to go by. He was her cousin and now, guardian and she was trapped in his grip, like a spider's web.


	2. The House and the Piano

_**Disclaimer: I only own Amaranth Peverell, her family, and her story. Anything that you recognise belongs to the amazing J K Rowling, and I am simply using the source material provided to create a fan-fiction. This is also a companion piece to "Not All Slytherins are Death Eaters" so some of you, if you have not read it, might not understand some of the lore or character behind this fan fiction.**_

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

 **The House and the Piano**

 **2nd of April, 1970**

Little Hangleton wasn't a village Amaranth was familiar with, although long before Voldemort took her, she was familiar with the stories. Her mother had lived their, long before she found Amaranth's father and moved to London, and if the stories were correct, then this village, the village that she and Voldemort were walking down, wasn't a place to trust.

People hardly paid any attention to the girl and the man, although there were a few elderly men and woman who did take a few double glances when they saw them, their thoughts muttered softly under their breath. To them, if it wasn't for the girl's green eyes, and brown hair, she might have been the lost whore who had run off with the Riddle's youngest son. But whether Amaranth heard these mumblings she didn't let on, and her green eyes dulled as Voldemort approached the Riddle House.

The hilltop was wild and tall, the only building on it overlooking Little Hangleton with such dominance, that it looked like was about to crush the thatched cottages below. Ivy, and moss climbed up the face, the manor's cracked stone glinting coldly in the summer heat, that as Voldemort approached a side door, he looked mildly miffed. Turning his gaze, his eyes landed on a small muggle dwelling at the end of the garden, and before anyone could come out of that house and as what the two were doing, Voldemort shielded them from view.

Once hidden, the Dark Lord turned his attention to the door, and with a flick off is wand, unlocked the bolt, and opened the door. Inside was cold, and mildly damp, the black spots of mould forming on the wooden beam, as Amaranth crossed the threshold. Her tongue was still sore, so she didn't dare speak, and as Voldemort surveyed the kitchen.

Cobwebs and a faint smell musky smell crept along the kitchen's counters, the large table in the middle of the room cracked and warped and Amaranth could almost imagine a group of servants sitting around it, eating their meals, or cooking dinners. But the table now lay empty, a forgotten shadow against the rest of the rusted copper pots, and dusty floors.

She gazed sadly around the room as Voldemort made his way up the stairs, and for a brief second, Amaranth considered running. However even before the thought pierced her mind, she knew that she wouldn't succeed, and with a heavy breath, followed her cousin up the stairs.

Eventually, Amaranth would alter learn to navigate the house, learn to walk down the cold house with nothing but her intuition and memory, but now, alone with nobody but her cousin, she felt awfully empty. The foyer was large and spacious, with a balconied area above it, and collins on either side of the staircase. Intricate patterns were cared into the marble, dust clinging to the shapes like skin, that as Amaranth stared at them, she wondered how long it would take to clean. A large muggle painting of a family of three stared down at her from the top of the staircase, the eerily familiar image of a man who looked like human-Voldemort, and his parents watching everything with a paranoid, proud look.

She hadn't seen her cousin use much spell work which didn't contain torture, so she was ever so mildly surprised when the wallpaper suddenly stripped itself away, replaced with a dark, black and grey pattern that made the foyer seem even colder. The dark wood floor, was polished, and the dust cleared, the golden trimmings turning to silver, so that everything resembled a mausoleum rather then a home. It was as Amaranth was figuring out a way to light the large chandelier that she heard the sound of something heavy being removed. Turning, the witch's eyes widened as the painting was torn from the wall, Voldemort's power causing the oils to bubble and through. She bit her lip, closing her eyes tight as the frame cracked, the painting landing in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

Voldemort turned to her, red eyes glittering.

'You will use this to heat the manor,' he replied, voice suddenly ten times colder than Amaranth had ever heard. The girl nodded.

The decoration, as one might call it, continued for a couple of weeks, however, Amaranth soon came to realise, that Voldemort must have lived in the house before, because certain thing he kept, certain muggle items that hand't lost their vaults, he displayed on the wall. It was a little weird to say the least.

One of these items was the muggle piano. It smelt of pine and old grander, a lonely muggle piece against an array of pale colours and dark fabrics. It sat alone in the ballroom, hidden underneath a silver cloth. Amaranth had seen it before, watched an invisible person play it many times before, seen the air around her become anew under the music's hold. Whoever it was, knew how to play very well, and more than once, Amaranth considered that their might be two people playing, for the music was often complicity sad.

Sometimes, she would see a figure standing in the doorway, their face hidden by a long cloak, as they watched the piano sing, but most often, Amaranth was alone. She found solace in the mysterious player, or players, and came to understand that she wasn't the only one trapped in the Riddle House.

Two weeks had passed since Voldemort had moved her to the manor, and it had been almost a month since he took her from Wools. She hadn't seen much of him, and the times that she did, she did everything in her power not to be tortured — even if that meant killing others. It pained her to see people she didn't even know, die by her or Lord Voldemort's hand. She wanted to rub her hands raw, to dig out her soul and cleanse it until it shone — but the magic had all ready settled, stained her core like ash.

It was as sat underneath the piano, head leaning against on of its many legs, that she noticed the person who played. The woman was in her late twenties, her soft yellow robes falling to the floor as she played the same sad tune. Her bare feet tapped over the peddles hollowing out the song so that reach note ran into each other, and from under the piano, glittering tears fell down Amaranth's cheeks.

They player never said a thing, her head bowed low as she played, and ever so often, she would where silent flicker, twisting and turning between a pale, see-through ghost, and the pretty, young ting that she once had been, until Amaranth thought she was looking at the blurring mess of good and bad.

Amaranth never said anything, never mentioned her discovery to anyone else, which was why, as she waited for the woman to stop playing, she was rather surprised to see Lord Voldemort striding into the room, eyes glittering.

'Shut up,' the Dark Lord suddenly snapped, eyes flickering to the woman, red eyed burning as he glared at her. There was a beat, a single soft note that made the hairs on Amaranth's arm rise. Maybe he'd heard her. But it wasn't impossible, for the only sound in the room was the grinding of her muscles, and the faint beat in her chest.

The woman turned to face the Dark Lord, face soft against the harsh, cold room. Reaching behind her, as if daring him to kill her, the woman touched a key, the soft note drumming around the room like a firefly. Amaranth's nails dug fast into hands. Oh god.

'I said shut up!' Voldemort roared, marching over to the woman, his hands ready to grab her. Amaranth wanted to scream, to warn the woman, to cry out in spilt tongues, but just as Voldemort was about to touch the woman, she disappeared, her form flickering as she glided through him.

In the darkness, and sadness of the piano's shadow, Amaranth swore she heard a boy laugh. Just as she managed to convince herself that she hadn't heard anything, the ghost stopped, turning to face Voldemort, a look of callused regret etched on her face. Now that Amaranth could see her, the ghost's body seemed to ripple, her pine-thorn green eyes staring at the locket that hung around Voldemort's neck. A Star of David rested at her belly, the necklace a thin silver against the mustard yellow of her robe, and her hair was bound in a tight turban, the tuffs of hair visible revealing themselves to be a bright, violent red.

She crossed her arms, as if she were looking at a petulant child, and not a Dark Lord. Even thought Amaranth could not see his face, she knew her cousin was fuming. His hands were tight, knuckles white as the woman smiled, her eyes wandering back to the piano. Amaranth clasped her hand over her mouth, pressing her split tongue to the roof of her mouth, as a woman, shifted, her eyes flickering briefly towards her.

The woman's gaze snapped back to Voldemort, her eyes darkening as they fixed on the locket around his neck. Suddenly a faint flicker of light sprouted from the locket neck, twisting and turning until the faded outline of a young man stood in between he and the woman.

Somewhere in the back of Amaranth's mind, she realised that the man was like Voldemort's human form, but younger, with softer skin, and kinder features, but nevertheless, somewhat dark. He wore black clothes, his black hair falling around his face as he fiddled with an identical locket. A golden cup appeared in the woman's hands, her green eyes suddenly wary as she held it up to the light. The candlelight managed to catch the cup's gleam, sending rays of golden hands to fracture the ballroom floor. It was if a thousand fireflies were lighting up the room, and as Amaranth stared, mouth open, she couldn't help but feel ever so slightly comforted.

Voldemort on the other hand, was pulling out his wand, the tip flickering a deep green as he trusted it forward, pointing the end and the woman. She didn't say a thing, and neither did the boy, the two simply stared at him, pity lining their eyes, and for a split second, Amaranth wondered if this was simply Voldemort's conscious.

Something else was troubling her to. A silver ring, completely different to Gaunt one Voldemort wore, lingered on the boy's left hand. It was simple, a thick band binding him to the earth, and yet as Voldemort's body trembled, Amaranth wondered what that ring meant.

'Leave,' Voldemort gasped, shaking his head. 'Leave now,'

The woman cocked her head, slipping her hand into the boy's with such ease that Amaranth wondered how many times she had done it.

'But you made us like this,' the woman finally said. 'You killed us — made us part of you… Tom and I can't leave — not ever.'

The boy, Tom, nodded, and before Voldemort could say anything, disappeared. The woman on the other hand, held her ground, her gaze flickering between the piano and Voldemort.

'Will you let me play?' the ghost asked, eyebrows raised. 'This was my home to you know — I want to play,'

Voldemort's eyes narrowed.

'If you stop that dreadful noise, then I won't banish you!' he growled, hands slamming the piano's lid down hard. The woman seemed to laugh, her voice a soft, hollow thing that reverberated around the room, causing the Dark Lord to turn. She raised her eyebrows.

'Didn't you listen to anything I just said?' she asked, floating into the air so that her feet left the ground. 'I can't leave — I'm you're horcrux.'

Whoever that word meant, made Voldemort ten times more angry, and he strode away, pushing the ghost away from him as he stormed off. Amaranth suddenly let loose the breath that she had been holding, her heart suddenly re-beating as the woman sat back down at the piano. It took her an awfully long time before she began to play again, the lost, sad tune running down Amaranth's bones as she shuffled forward.

The ghost didn't even blink as Amaranth crept to the other side of the ballroom, and pulled back a worn tapestry. Before she could change her mind, the girl opened the servant's door, and darted inside. It was as Amaranth slipped away, heart suddenly pounding in her chest as the woman began to cry, her hands pressed deep against her eyes, as tears, full of broken, childish thoughts, and a long lost hope that had smashed far to long ago, shattered the room. Amaranth's mouth turned cold, as the woman's sobbing disappeared, her body falling to ghostly nothingness, as the golden cup that had been sitting on the piano fell with soft clang.

Their was a ghost in the Riddle House, with a ring that matched Tom's.

* * *

 **Dear Readers,**

 **So that was part two, of the Trials of a Peverell? What do you think? Weird, or not? I was actually listening to classical piano music when I was wiring this — I found out that this helps me write more, poetic sounding prose — I think I'll stick to it now. I also must apologise for it being so short, I am not feeling very well, and unfortunately, his is the best I could do.**

 **So, who exactly is the ghost? That is a question some of you, might all ready know, or perhaps I'm just pulling your leg. You'll find out who she is later on, and I hope your ready.**

 **I also must apologise, for it has almost been two years since I updated his story, and that is mostly due to the fact, that when I started, I was doing my exams. I am really, really, really sorry.**

 **For those of you coming from "Not All Slytherins are Death Eaters" welcome, to the companion piece of that story. This is Amaranth's childhood, and I am planning to write right up to the end of Voldemort's first defeat, when Harry becomes the boy-who-lived. The reason being is because you will have/will learn Amaranth's story in "Not All Slytherins are Death Eaters"**

 **Right, onto the reviews:**

 ** _Dancing-Souls:_** **Thank you, I hope you like the rest of the plot. Sorry it took so long to write.**

 ** _Samaraaaa:_** **Here is the second chapter - I apologise profusely for the lack of updates, life, as it does, got in the way.**

 **Hope to see you soon,**

 **from,**

 **Lily**


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